Go Another Way
by tartan robes
Summary: AU. What might have happened if Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes had gone another way.
1. Chapter 1

_"Do you ever wish you'd gone another way? Worked in a shop or a factory? Had a wife and children?"__  
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><p><em>1.<em>

He opens the door to a warm light and the sound of her flipping pages.

"What was keeping you?"

"I was going over inventory."

"Of course." He knows she's rolling her eyes as she slides over, making room for him in their bed.

"Is there anything wrong with caution?" He asks as she leans her head against his shoulder. Her fingers smooth out the fabric over his arm; her hand finds his.

"I believe you want to hear a _no_."

He squeezes her hand gently - and then there's silence. He's never felt the need to talk, to fill the room with noise, especially not with her. Nowadays, he thinks he knows more from what she doesn't say than what she does. It must be one of those things, he assumes, that happens when you age.

"Do you -"

She pauses, looks up at him.

"Do you ever wish you'd gone another way, Charles?"

When he doesn't answer, she continues.

"Become a footman or a butler, maybe? Worked in some grand, old house?"

He looks at her carefully, forcing the words out of his throat. Her hand has slipped out of his and she's picked up her book again, thumbing the pages absentmindedly.

"Do you?"

"I don't know."

She pauses.

"Maybe."

Silence.

"Sometimes."

_2._

In retrospect, he should have known it was a bad idea. He was foolish to think there was anything to be found in life as an actor, as a comedian. If he could even be called that. No, what he had been doing, really, was just making a fool out of himself. Dancing around shoddy stages, singing silly songs - what sort of life was that? Not a proper one. No, not at all. That was why he had left Grigg a week ago. Grigg, who hadn't been able to keep his fat fingers off their profits. Grigg, who had squandered their money away on wine and women. Grigg, who had left him with absolutely nothing. If he had only had some money to his name, some sort of merit… Then maybe he wouldn't be here, hiding out in the Grantham Arms, trying to figure out how to approach his father.

His father will take him back, he's sure of that. But he's also much too proud to just waltz back in, to face his father's triumphant smirk. Instead, he spends three days at the Grantham Arms, collecting more debt to his name with every drink.

When he finally does crawl back to his family, he discovers he's been replaced. Or, at the very least substituted.

"I can't believe," he says to his father, balancing on his toes to meet his gaze, "that you hired _a girl _to do my work."

"That girl," his father glares, "is far more skilled than you, Charles. And she shows up to work every day."

_3._

Though, he soon finds out she isn't just any girl.

His father's right, if she's not better than him, she's at least a even match. She writes faster than he does, and, for the first week, knows far more than he does.

He's carrying crates in (it figures his father would make him do grunt work before letting him do the real _business _work; his father claims its character building, but Charles is certain it's just punishment), hauling them into the store aimlessly, when she interrupts him.

"Do you know where those go, Mr. Carson?"

"I'm not my father," he responds instantly. No, he admits silently, he has no idea where these crates go. He has no idea, either, why she's calling him Mr. Carson. It sounds so official; it sounds like the businessman his father is, not the apprentice he claims to be. Besides, they're practically the same age; there's no need for such formality. (Though, secretly, he does enjoy it. At least there's someone in the world who pretends to respect him.)

"I'm aware of that, Mr. Carson. I do have eyes."

"Are you determined to call me that?"

"As long as it doesn't bother you," she pauses, grins, "_Mr. Carson_."

"Well then, what am I supposed to call you - Elsie, isn't it?"

She nods, picking up a box. He takes the other crate in his arms and follows her, blindly, down the hallway. He feels incredibly ashamed that she knows his house better than he does. He's a stranger here, some bizarre interloper.

"It hardly seems fair," he continues, "if I have a title and you don't."

"Am I to be Ms. Hughes then?" She asks, setting the box down and resting a hand on her hip. "Because I believe, if we were servants -"

"Which we basically are."

She laughs a bit. "If we were servants, then, being the important, key figure that I am," she raises her brow, smiles slightly, "I would be _Mrs_. Hughes instead."

"Won't that get confusing? Boys will think you're married." He wishes he hadn't said that. It sounds so juvenile; he curses himself for sounding so stupid.

"Oh, _Mr. Carson_, that's the least of my worries."

_4._

"What you were you - before all this?"

He pours out a glass of wine (if all that time with Grigg, bouncing from stage to stage, bar to bar, has taught him something, it's how to recognise a good wine), hands it to her across the table. Somehow, this has become a ritual. He barely even noticed it, not until she didn't show up in his room on Friday. Only then did he realize they had been meeting each other every evening – for two weeks straight. He was surprised, though perhaps he shouldn't have been. Friendship was, after all, inevitable. What else were they supposed to become? Especially when they spent practically every waking hour together.

"My father owns a farm," she swirls the red liquid in her glass, watching it splash, "back in Argyll."

He nods, of course, of course. He knew that she was from Scotland. After all, her accent hardly hid it.

"Then what's brought you all the way out here?" It was a long way to go for a simple job as a bookkeeper.

"My mother thought I should make the best of my education." She shrugs, takes a sip. "This is far more interesting than tending to sheep."

"I don't know about that."

"Then you'll just have to take my word for it."

He's sure he's going to end up doing a lot of that in the future.


	2. Chapter 2

_1._

He's never fancied himself a romantic by any stretch. Not in the way the other boys are. It's much easier for him to fall in love with work than a girl, and so that's exactly what he does. He stays up until daybreak sometimes, going over the books and double-checking inventory. Everything has to be perfect. He works until he can't tell dust from ink, until his eyes force themselves shut.

Sometimes she appears in the doorway.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she says, her hands on her hips, "I've already gone over that – twice"

"I'm just checking it over."

"Your father doesn't pay me to simply _breathe_, Mr. Carson."

So he's the most surprised when he agrees to go dancing. He really shouldn't. He put that dreadful tome of his life behind him, threw away his dancing shoes, tore up all the sheet music. He blames the outing on his father ("You'll have to get married sooner or later, Charles"), he blames it on having one too many drinks at the Grantham Arms, but, mostly, he blames it on the girl, Adeline Wright: autumn hair and a splash of freckles, his dancing partner.

It would be a good match, or so his father says. Her father owns a business slightly larger than theirs; it would be as advantageous as marriages get for their class.

"Are you sure you can handle everything by yourself?" He throws Elsie a nervous glance as he slips on his coat.

"Have a little confidence in me for once."

"Because I usually -"

"I know your routine."

"But -"

"Out with you!"

He knows better than to disagree with that tone. He's closing the door behind him when he hears her say:

"And let yourself have fun for once."

_2._

He's forgotten all his steps and his soles feel like lead. He thumps while she glides and he swings where she swoops. To say the least, he feels incredibly embarrassed. But she just laughs, pulls on the fabric of her dress, and asks him to tell her more about himself.

He's been dreading this. What can he say about himself? Not much. He could tell her about his job, about the family business, about the profit they turned last season. That's all he is. Charles Carson is defined by numbers and figures and not much more.

But that will hardly woo a lady.

Her hand is in his and it feels so small, so fragile. She could be made of glass or porcelain for all he knows.

He diverts her questions, asks her to talk about herself instead.

It's very odd to listen to a woman, he thinks, talk in anything but a Scottish accent.

_3._

"So, will we be seeing more of Ms. Wright?"

"I don't know yet, Mrs. Hughes. I haven't quite decided."

"Well you better decide quickly - before your father does."

"Can these things really be rushed, though?"

"I didn't know you were so concerned with blossoming romance, Mr. Carson."

"I'm not! I've just... I've just been thinking, is all."

"Well, if you're thinking, then you're certainly not in love."

_4._

She's never taken an evening off before.

"What's the occasion?"

She adjusts the collar of her dress nervously. "Is this too fancy? Because he's -" She bites her lip, "It's just a friend."

When she leaves, he becomes aware of how quiet the rooms are, how low the ceilings are. In her absence, he finds himself looking out the window an awful lot - and polishing things that hardly need to be polished. The house feels empty and small and his desk is too tight and his chair is too hard. He spends a good thirty minutes pacing. If anyone were to ask, he'd say he was thinking - but thoughts are liquid in his mind, fleeting, blurry.

He sees her _friend _when she comes home, a cross-section of his face through the windows. He rears himself up to full height, determined to be taller than this _friend_, and eyes him through the crack in the door.

When she closes the door behind her, she's smiling uncontrollably.

"How was your evening?" He pretends the papers on his desk are important, absorbs himself in them.

"Very nice, thank you."

_5._

"So this Mr. Burns -"

"Joe."

"Joe?"

"His name's Joe."

"Well, my name's Charles, but you don't call me that."

She rolls her eyes. "You're different."

They both look down into their glasses, take a sip of wine.

"Anyway, this Joe Burns... What does he do?"

"He's a farmer - oh, don't give me that face."

"What face?"

"That face. There's nothing wrong with farm work. It's very important."

"I thought you said it was dull."

"I never said that. I just said this work was more interesting."

She pauses, frowns.

"Most of the time."

_6._

He notices each time she comes back from a visit with her friend Joe (and the visits have grown closer together, more frequent, longer), she pockets a new trinket. They're small things: a doll, a flower, a pretty stone. He wonders if this is how couples are supposed to court one another, because it all seems a little frivolous to him.

She doesn't think so though. She arranges each of her gifts nicely on her mantle. Soon it's cluttered, full of pressed daisies and rocks and coins. He wonders what she'll do when she runs out of room.

Thankfully, though, he leaves at the end of the month. He comes into the shop to say goodbye, shakes Charles' hand, and wraps his arms around Elsie's waist. Carson feels uncomfortable when they hold each other for more than ten seconds - not that he's counting.

The departure of Joe Burns, however, doesn't put an end to her collection. Instead, she files his letters underneath the feathers and lavender. He sees a bit of one once and concludes his handwriting's much nicer than Mr. Burns'. That farmer loops his y's much too widely.

It was most improper.

_7._

"Is something on your mind, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Ah - oh - well, yes. I suppose there is."

He pours out the tea carefully.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"It's just - do you ever - have you ever loved two things very much?"

He can't say he has, so he keeps quiet.

"It's just, you see Mr. Carson, when you love more than one thing, it's very hard to discern which one you love most."

She swallows all her tea in one gulp.

"Or which one loves you most."

_8._

Joe Burns walks into the shop one spring day, tie not properly knotted and a seam in his shoulder loose.

"Is Elsie here?"

"Elsie?" Charles' face scrunches up, frowning in confusion. He's not sure he knows an Elsie.

"I'm here, Joe," Mrs. Hughes walks through the doorway, buttoning up her coat. "Where else would I be?"

Oh. _That Elsie_.

He's suddenly upset he doesn't call her by her first name. Doesn't he deserve that familiarity? He's sat with her for months, years, poured tea and wine, talked through the night. Out of all the people in the world, doesn't he deserve something more than Elsie?

No, he reminds himself, he doesn't deserve anything from her. That's not how it works.

Joe Burns' smile quivers at the edges. "Have you had enough time to think about -"

"We best go outside." She cuts him off swiftly, but allows him to loop his arm through hers and carry her into the streets.

Think about what? He wonders as the room grows smaller.

_9._

"Where's Joe?"

"Gone." Her fingers pat the spaces under her eyes. He swears they're the slightest bit red. "And if he knows what's best for him, he'll stay away too."

But she doesn't sound bitter, only terribly, terribly sad.

_10._

He lets her slip through his fingers without so much as saying a word. She hangs up her coat, looks at him for a moment, and then disappears into her room.

He spends the rest of the evening trying to think of what he should say.

When he passes by her room that night, he swears he can hear her crying softly.

He still doesn't know what to say.

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><p><em>I'd just like to thank everyone for their kind comments! I'm glad a few of you are enjoying this, haha. I'm still trying to get a handle on them, but it's great to know you guys are reading!<em>


	3. Chapter 3

_1._

When he sees her the next morning (she's awake before he is, head buried in papers, scribbling numbers down furiously), there's no sign of tears, no sign of sobs, no sign of anything strange, anything the tiniest bit off. She smiles at him when he enters, and he takes his seat opposite her. He wonders quietly, cursing as ink spills onto his fingertips, if last night was only a dream. If last night had been nothing more than a shadow, a ghost of _could be_s and _maybe_s.

It certainly seems like one.

_2. _

"My father thinks I should call upon Ms. Wright again."

Her head is facing the window; she's been focused on it intensely for the past two weeks. He's been bracing himself for a visitor. He thinks, watching her fingers tighten into fists over and over again, that she is as well.

"Do you think I ought to?"

The silence weighs on him, chokes him, becomes unbearable. He clears his throat.

"… Mrs. Hughes, are you -"

Her head snaps towards him, "I keep your books, Mr. Carson. I don't maintain your life."

He's struck by the sharpness of her voice. Certainly, he's heard it before, but it's never cut so deep.

She exhales, her fingers relax, spread themselves over the pages. She looks at him again and her head tilts slightly, sympathetically, as if he was a child or a dog. He feels incredibly small.

"It would be the proper thing to do, Mr. Carson."

She looks down into her lap, opens a drawer quietly. He coughs again, looks down at his work. Yes, it would be the proper thing to do, wouldn't it? He hears her push the drawer back into its place.

"I think she'd appreciate it very much."

(Their guest never shows up.)

_3._

So he has his father arrange things for him. He goes over to the Wright house for dinner and sits awkwardly in their chair. Adeline smiles at him from across the table. It occurs to him that he knows next to nothing about her. It's disturbingly impersonal. But she holds her cutlery properly, so she can't be that bad of a girl. He should be trying to get to know her – how can he expect himself to marry a shade? That's all she is to him, an empty vessel, a shadow. This whole affair makes him feel awful.

In the hallway, she rests her head on her chin, looks him in the eyes.

"Do you know some folks out in the East believe in reincarnation?"

"A foolish idea if I've ever heard one," he mutters, adjusting his collar.

"Do you really think so? I think it's rather interesting."

"It's more like a waste of time."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Well it isn't real. It's just nonsense. It's a waste of time to discuss something that impractical."

She clucks her tongue, swats the air with her hand. "Oh, come on. Don't you find it the least bit interesting?"

"I regret to inform you my answer is still no."

"But what if it wasn't nonsensical –"

"But it is."

"What if, Charles! What if you were to be reincarnated, what animal would you be?"

He tugs at his sleeves.

"I'd like to be a butterfly," she continues, but he's stopped listening.

_4._

"Mrs. Hughes?"

"Yes, Mr. Carson?"

He hangs up his hat, pulls once more on his collar.

"If you were to – to come back to life as an animal… what sort of animal would you be?"

Her features collapse in confusion. "What kind of question is that?"

"Just something I heard over dinner."

"Ah, I see."

"So if you were to become an animal –"

"I'd hope to be a smart one, Mr. Carson."

_5._

He tells his father that yes, Ms. Wright is very nice, but no, no, he doesn't think it could ever work out. He could never marry a butterfly – in body or in soul.

_6__._

He's looking for last month's records when he opens that drawer again. He knows he ought to ask her to find it - she'd have it out in a heartbeat - but her door was closed and he hasn't dared to open that door since that one night. He lifts a few documents – all of them useless – and finds a crumpled slip of paper.

It was ripped, that much is clear. Though it's been glued back together, there's still a great scar across it, an earthquake splitting the page in two.

_Marriage of Joe Burns to Ivy Burns (née Hall)._

7.

His legs are moving and his mind is numb. He finds himself pushing open her door – he doesn't think, he just opens it –and her sitting on her bed, reading a book. She jumps when she sees him in the doorway.

"Mr. Carson?"

His mind is desperately trying to clamp his mouth shut, but he has too many questions.

"He asked you to marry him."

He wishes he had swallowed the words instead of spoken them.

She shoots him a look (but he can't place the emotion) and picks up her book again, opens it silently.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She turns a page.

"Why," his voice is hoarse, his words are strained, "did you say no?"

Another page passes by.

"_Elsie_."

He whispers the name with no force behind it; it's more like the blowing of air than the twisting of syllables. Still, no matter how quietly he says it, it still covers the room in a dead, dead shroud. Their Christian names, he thinks, have become great signs of undoing. Behind their surnames and fake titles, it's easy to pretend to be adults, adults made of stone and marble. Adults with Medusa glares and their hearts carved out. First names, in a whimper or a bang, are a sign of weakness.

She closes her eyes, counts the breaths she exhales.

_One_.

"You were right, Mr. Carson."

_Two_.

"This is far more interesting than farm work." She tries to smile at him, but her muscles falter, too weak.

_Three_.

"And I didn't want to give this up."

_Four_.

"Any of this. _All_ of this."

He sits down next to her on the bed and, cautiously, takes her hand in his. He doesn't say anything; he still can't find the proper words, but this time he thinks he might be able to comfort her. He sits there for an hour and neither one of them says a thing. He's waiting for her to cry again. He thinks if she does, he might hold her. Wouldn't that help? It wouldn't be terribly hard to just extend his arm a bit, wrap it around her shoulder. That would be comforting, wouldn't it?

But she doesn't cry, doesn't even shake or tremble or make a sound. She just holds his hand and looks at the wall.

He doesn't take his eyes off her.

_8. _

It occurs to him they spend an awful lot of time sitting in their offices, sitting their rooms together - just sitting. He knows he has nothing better to do – what could be more important than his work? – but she's always there as well. She doesn't have anything better to do either. No, that's the wrong way to put it. It's not that she doesn't have anything better to do, it's that she understands that there _isn't _anything more important than this.

There isn't anything more important than this.

_9._

"Mr. Carson."

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Put on your coat."

"Pardon me?"

"Put on your coat, Mr. Carson."

"Why would I put on my coat? It's perfectly warm inside."

"Because we're going dancing."

"I – what?"

"Dancing, Mr. Carson. Or must I define that as well?"

"You know I don't dance."

"Today is as good a day as any to start."

"I –"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, stop being ridiculous and put on your coat!"

_10._

The room is full of strings being plucked hastily and couples zigzagging across the floor. It's warm and it's chaotic and it's dizzying. The fact that, once upon a time, he knew how to dance is reduced to a foolish fantasy. Maybe even a joke.

"I don't know any of these steps."

"And you think I do?"

"Well, I –"

She snorts with laughter. "When have you seen me out of the office recently?"

"Not in the past few weeks, I suppose but –"

"The past few weeks? More like the past few months." She touches his shoulder gently, "I'm just as clueless as you."

"So what do we do now?"

"Well, what steps do you know?"

"Ballroom steps, not frivolous…" He glances out into the myriad of people, "stomping and swaying."

"Oh, Ms. Wright must have had _so _much fun with you." But she pulls on his arm, drags him out into the floor.

"Why are we doing this, Mrs. Hughes?"

She slips one of her hands into his (and it doesn't feel fragile at all), adjusts his free one around her waist.

"Lead on."

The music is faster than his heartbeat; the room is full of sweat and sound, but none of that matters. They're waltzing while everyone else is two-stepping. Out of the corner of his eye he sees them twisting, more hurricane than human. He holds her close – perhaps too close, though she never objects – gliding across the floor in wide swoops. They're not very good, but he doesn't care much about that either.

They look a lot less foolish, he tells himself, than anyone else there.

_11. _

It starts to rain on the way home.

They end up sprinting their way home, feet beating against the stone road, splashing through puddles. He can't see a thing before him; there's too much rain and the sky is too dark. The world is just pitch black, wet, and cold. He can hear her breathe in time with the storm.

They fall into the hallway, peeling drenched coats off their skin. Water runs down along the floor, lakes spring up on the ground.

"Your father's going to kill us," she says.

Her hat is off; her hair is falling apart. It's no longer tightly rolled, bound up pins and needles or whatever it is girls stick in their hair. Standing over the desk, she begins to pull it apart. He feels as though he should look away, as though this is something he shouldn't see, something private.

"Mrs. Hughes," he says, stepping towards her.

She looks up, her hands twisting around hair, ringing it out.

"Would you mind, terribly, if I kissed you?"

It's a sudden surge of boldness, to be sure. He's not too sure why, but he knows she looks beautiful tonight. Maybe she looked that way every night. Her hands fall to her sides and she walks towards him. They're inches apart and she looks beautiful. They're centimeters apart and she's standing on her toes and his hands are in her hair. They're millimeters apart and she smells like rain. They're –

She kisses him.

Afterwards, they stand facing each other, and she takes his hands in hers.

Her hands don't feel fragile, they don't feel like glass or porcelain or silver.

They just feel _right_.

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><p><em>Ah, thanks again for all your kind comments!<em> _I'm not too, too sure about this chapter, but __we'll start to move forward a bit faster in the next chapter. Or, I hope so anyway. _


	4. Chapter 4

_1._

They decide there will be no sunsets, no secret encounters in closets, and no more caught-out-in-the-rain kisses (if it can be helped). He's very much relieved; it all sounded a bit too theatrical for his current self, a bit too juvenile, silly.

"And what about feathers and rocks? Should I be collecting those too?"

She rolls her eyes. "Mr. Carson, are you trying to impress me?"

She kisses him on the cheek.

"Because you really don't have to try."

_2._

Nights later, they're in her room. She gets out a box and begins to pick up the pressed flowers, the stones, the metal bits and pieces, and put them all back inside. He watches her, but doesn't help. It's not that he doesn't want to; he just knows it's not his place. She has to do this on her own.

"Did you love him?" He asks quietly, watching her skim over the letters before tucking them away.

"I would say so."

She folds the last letter shut, shakes her head slightly, "Just not enough."

"Do you ever wonder what would have happened if –"

"Mr. Carson, I am _always _in a state of wonder."

She locks the box, slides it under her bed.

Years later, he won't be able to recall what she did with the key.

_3._

Not much changes.

He doesn't feel embarrassed when their shoulders brush in the hall. He doesn't feel bad when he looks up from his numbers and his inventory and his prices and stares at her for a moment too long. She laughs more; she stays in his room later. (They probably drink more wine, too.) But other than that, things feel more or less the same. Some nights he fancies her an extension of himself, his better self, sitting a room away.

He forgets how young they are. How she isn't really a "Mrs" anything, how they might get married soon, how there might be children one day. There's so much for him to think about, so much to be planned. But a wedding, she insists, is not a big deal. Not for their class. It's just another step, just another day.

"Our class doesn't get fairy tales," she says. "That's not what marriage is for us."

_For us.  
><em>  
>"Is that a yes then?"<p>

"A yes to what?"

"I –"

"I'm no mind reader, Mr. Carson. You actually have to ask me the question first."

_4._

"I do."

_5._

"Mrs. Hughes –"

"It's Mrs. Carson now, isn't it?"

Oh, right. He supposes it is.

"_Mrs. Carson_, what happens next?"

"After tonight?"

"After tonight."

"After tonight, we'll sleep less, we'll gain a few pounds, we'll drink more wine, we'll grow a little older."

"So we have nothing but misery in store for us?"

"On the contrary, Mr. Carson, I intend to be exceptionally happy."

_6._

Mary is born on a cold summer day.

From the moment he holds her tiny little hand, he knows that he'll gladly cross ten oceans to secure her happiness. Anything, anything for Mary. From the moment she learns to walk, her back is perfectly straight, her chin is tilted skywards. From the moment she learns to talk, her sentences are charming, witty, elegant. He finds these qualities endearing, thinks she can do no wrong.

"Denial and acceptance are very different things," Elsie warns him, muttering under her breath.

But he's not in denial, his daughter is as perfect as they come.

_7._

She sings to William. She never sang to Mary, but she sings to William. She hums when he's slung over her shoulder, when he's running down the hall, when he's tucked into bed at night. She hears him singing in his sleep (or maybe he's still awake, melodies rushing through his mind). Some nights, Charles stands on the other side of the doorway, frowning.

"Why does he do that?"

"Because you do it."

"I do _not _sing in my sleep."

"_Of course you don't_."

"What are you –"

"Goodnight, Charles!"

Somehow, a piano shows up in their house. He can't remember how it got there; if he brought it in or she did or if it was a strange sort of gift. Maybe, like so many things (_like her_), it was always there and he just never noticed. He and Elsie stare at it one night, poking and tapping at keys. Neither of them, it's plain to see, knows a thing about how to play it. So they leave it be. Some days, when she's feeling incredibly bright, Mary wrestles her way up onto the stool, pounds on a few keys. It's Elsie who insists she pounds; he thinks she acts with enthusiasm. Either way, like all things, Mary tires of it quickly, moves onto her next escapade. But when no one is looking, William taps on the keys – very softly, barely enough force to make a sound.

He does this for years to come.

_8._

"You should play louder."

"I –"

She sits next to William on the piano bench. His hands are so small next to hers, so small and yet so much more talented.

"We like to hear you play, you know. I like to hear you play."

He boy says nothing; he swings his legs aimlessly over the floor.

"It's much better than when your sister plays, anyway. At least you make music instead of noise."

"Mary," he pipes up, "plays nicely. She has energy."

"Oh, yes, she has plenty of that."

His fingers hover over the keys, twitch, playing invisible symphonies.

"Why don't you teach me how to play?" She asks him, if only to make the imaginary reality.

He spends the rest of his evening guiding her hands over black and white, smiling when she fumbles and smiling even wider when she churns out a fragment of a tune.

"One day," he says excitedly, "we'll be able to play a duet together."

"One day."

_9._

Sometimes, he gets frustrated with William; he raises his voice, he shouts.

"You shouldn't be so hard on him," she'll point out later, over late-night wine.

"I'm teaching him how to run a business. Forgive _me_, but it's not the most forgiving of worlds."

"And you're clearly not the most forgiving of fathers."

Sometimes, when he's had one glass too many, he might shoot back: "Well, you aren't exactly the perfect mother either."

"Me?"

"For starters, you could actually talk to Mary for once."

"I talk to her!"

"Hardly!"

A glass will topple, shatter against the ground. They'll spend the last hours of that night cleaning up the mess in silence. She won't look him in the eye when they turn off the light – out of anger, not fear. Never fear. But, when the darkness is squeezing them from all sides, he'll hear her whisper:

"We're just frightened for what they might become, aren't we?"

She'll go over the words a second time, a little louder.

"We just want what's best for them, don't we?"

_10._

When she's fourteen, he finds Mary spread out on her bedroom floor, staring intently at the ceiling.

"What are you doing here?" He asks, "I thought you were going to the market with your mother."

"Mother hates me."

He sighs, sits down next to her on the floor.

"Your mother does not hate you."

"Yes she does."

"No," he pauses, "you just remind her greatly of herself." He smiles a bit, pulls Mary up and seats her in his lap. Her eyes appear a little wet and he's stricken by the fact that he's never seen his daughter cry. Not once. "You both insist on being so strong," he whispers, "all the time. Every hour of the day."

"And so," he continues, "you never let us see any of the dents, the scratches in the armour."

"Whether she should be or not, your mother is terribly worried for you. She just doesn't know how to show it."

_11._

At night, they lie on their sides. Her back presses against his chest and his arms wrap around her waist. He knows she's still up by the rise and fall of her shoulders, knows her eyes are wide open out of years of marriage. He pulls her in a bit closer, wordlessly asking her to speak.

"They're both just like what we used to be."

He's sure she's chewing her lip; she does that when she thinks.

"Is that a bad thing?"

She turns over, rests her head against his chest.

"I don't know, you tell me."

* * *

><p><em>I don't really know what happened in this chapter. It was definitely a more difficult one to write. Among other things, I went back and forth over whether to AU MaryWilliam into it, but hopefully everyone still relatively in character. _


	5. Chapter 5

_1._

They're a family of repressed emotions.

If you keep busy, he thinks, you don't notice you feel numb. You don't notice how steely and cold Mary carries herself, don't notice how William closes his door softly every night – shuts the world out, you don't notice when Elsie is smiling and when she isn't. It all blends into one and the same. So you also fail to notice that you've become part of a family where everyone holds their forks perfectly. The wrong sort of perfectly. The perfectly that has ironed everything else out. The perfect that has left you void and blank inside.

A tiny voice inside asks: _isn't this what you always wanted to be? _

_2.  
><em>  
>"Days should constantly be getting longer, not shorter," she says, looking out the window.<p>

"There just isn't enough time for everything," she sits down, watching him open and close his palms.

"Charles?"

He opens his hands. His palms are a crossroad of lines and creases and arrows, barely-there spiderwebs and near-invisible fields. He can still feel the fork in his hands and, when he curls his fingers around the empty space, he can feel its weight burning into his skin. He uncurls his fingers. Should he be able to feel the blood in his fingertips? Should he be able to feel a thing? Did he ever?

"_Have _we been doing the right thing?" He asks quietly. He looks up nervously, because he's not sure he wants to hear what comes next, because she'll always tell him the truth.

"Well, we've done better than others," she laughs – slightly –, "if that's what you mean."

"We'll never know, will we?" She pours out the wine tonight, "Only they'll know." She throws a look out the door, down the hall.

She holds out the glass. He's focused on the floor.

"What about you? What about us?"

He's never allowed himself to fail, not after crawling out of the gutter, not after leaving Grigg and his foolishness behind. But had he? Had he and just never realized it?

She smiles at him (is this the first one of in a long time or something that was always there, so he just forgot to notice?), puts down his glass.

"Don't be silly, Charles," she whispers. She holds him, slips her arms around his sides, covers his palms with her own. "Don't be silly."

(Yes, the voice says, this _is _what you always wanted to be.)

_3._

They'll grow older.

Mary and William will inherit the company (at least as much as they'll ever be able to wrangle from their father). Mary will fall in love, marry a lawyer or the owner of a newspaper chain or maybe someone else entirely. William will find someone simpler, someone small, someone ordinary but kind. Or so he imagines. One day his daughter will tell him: _I can do this, go back to sleep _and his son will smile, but say nothing, and his wife will tell him: _Give it a rest already_. And, on that day, he will. He'll his kiss daughter's forehead, he'll smile back at his son, and he'll crawl into bed next to his wife.

"And you're not allowed to work on it tomorrow either," she'll say, facing the wall but talking to him.

"I –"

"Your children are more than competent."

"Fine."

"And – _fine_?"

"Yes, fine."

He'll kiss the back of her head and, hours later, sing in his sleep.

She'll wait up the next morning and find him still there, eyes shut, still sleeping.

"Perhaps miracles do happen every day," she'll laugh to the wall, to the room, to herself. 

* * *

><p><em>Something shorter as we get closer to the end! <em>


	6. Chapter 6

_1._

It's spring.

They're walking through a field, and he feels the stiffness and the ache in his legs (though only when they pause). They could walk forever, he supposes, walk straight past the horizon and into the sky. Her arm is linked with his and his free hand touches her fingers, steadies himself. Old age is turning him into a romantic.

"We couldn't rest here, could we?"

She stops walking and he feels a pain in his leg. Her arm slips out of his, and she looks at him, head slightly crooked.

"And sit in the _grass_?"

"Oh, _heaven forbid _you stain your suit."

"This suit is –"

"Going to look perfect no matter whether you sit or stand."

"_Can _we even sit at this age?"

"We're fast learners."

Well, he tells himself, it won't be the end of the world if he oes. (Though, another side urges, this will possibly be the most ridiculous thing he's done since the stage. For the first time in years, he ignores this voice. Old age is making him lenient as well.) They sit down in the grass, in between stalks of green and purple and yellow. He thinks of volumes and volumes of pressed flowers. Thinks of the box that may still be under her bed, tries to think of where she put the key. He tells himself they're better off without any of it.

"I received a letter from Mr. Burns last week," she says, taking off her hat.

"Joe?"

She smiles, a laugh caught between her teeth, "Yes, Joe."

"What did he want?"

"Ivy passed on."

"Ah. I – I suppose I'm sorry."

"I suppose we all are."

The flowers bend to the right, caving in to the wind.

"He asked how I'd got on, how I was," she continues, "how I am."

"And what did you tell him?"

The purple, yellow, and green bow and curtsey.

"And I told him that, just as I had intended, I'm exceptionally happy."

They're better off without the pressed flowers and the stones. They would only weight them down.

_2._

She kisses him once, twice, three times. There's no urgency in their movements, no rush. (Was there ever?) There's all the time in the world; there's only the two of them. It's never been so simple. It's always been this simple.

He closes the door gently.

(Four, five, six times.)

* * *

><p><em>At the risk of sounding horribly redundant, thanks again for all your reviews. It really means a lot to me! The chapters just continue to get shorter and shorter, and there's only one more left (I think), so we'll see how everything goes.<br>_


	7. Chapter 7

_1._

_I don't know._

_Maybe._

_Sometimes._

There's a long silence after the _sometimes_. No, not a silence, a stillness. The room is filled with the rise and fall of their chests, with the pauses where a heartbeat should be, with fingers not quite touching – but almost. She's put the book down on the night table, but the lights are still on. He can still see everything, feel everything.

_I don't know. Maybe. Sometimes. I don't know. Maybe. Sometimes._

Her words become his pulse and he can't clear his head. His mind flips through their past. _Sometimes._ Sometimes she wishes for something else. Sometimes she dreams of another life. Sometimes she regrets this. All of this: Mary and William and – _him_.

(But what about you? He questions himself more than he'd ever dare to question her. What about you? He shrugs his shoulders inward; he never dreams. Dreams are as foolish as they come.)

"And in this other world…" He winces slightly; this sounds an awful lot like dreaming, "where I am a butler –"

"Rather prestigious of you." He thinks she's teasing, laughing, but he also knows she isn't smiling.

"Where I am a butler," the thought of working under anyone is a horrible one; he doubts anyone else would keep up the proper standards, "and you are a… housemaid –"

"If you're a butler, I _must_ be a housekeeper."

He thinks she's smiling now.

"_Fine_. Where I am a butler and you are the housekeeper…"

They're inches, centimeters, millimeters apart and it's never been more difficult to touch her, to brush her arm, to hold her waist.

"Do we still know each other, Elsie?"

_Do you regret me, Elsie? Even sometimes__?_

Their noses touch. Their eyes meet. It's the first day they ever met or maybe it's the last day they'll ever see each other. It all looks the same to him. It all looks like her. It's all the days they've ever known each other, all in one look, one hand holding the side of his face, one kiss.

"Of course, Charles."

She pauses.

"How could we not?"

Silence.

"How could we not?" 

* * *

><p><em>And that's it. Thanks for all your kind comments for my first Downton fic! They all meant a lot to me. <em>


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